As It Turns Out
by Flobbergasted
Summary: Coda to 2x20,"Chicago".
1. Chapter 1

_A coda, of sorts, to 2x20: "Chicago"._

* * *

As it turns out, the most painless and convenient way to break up with your boss, who you shouldn't have been seeing in the first place (and you know it), is to say, in all honesty, "I can't work this weekend; my dad died, and I have to fly home for the funeral."

Then, when you get back, spend a couple of weeks moping around at work, and you're golden; she doesn't bring your fling up again, apparently waiting for signal that you're feeling "better" or "ready", and you just… never give that signal. Just go back to normal after a while, and you'll both sweep it under the rug, and work will go back to normal. Like a charm!

Except there's still some awkwardness. Awkwardness in the only place where you felt smooth. Damn.

Maybe it really is time to get out from behind the bar. Move on somehow. Sell that junker portapotty on craigslist and become a small-business owner of some more appealing ilk. Get into the time-machine business somehow, like Future Nick, but for real.

Well, when something better comes along, sure. What's the rush? No rush. You're only… in your thirties, already. Damn. Again.

* * *

As it turns out, the most roundabout, mangled way to ask your well-intentioned but somewhat socially thick-headed room…friend to go with you when you fly back home for your father's funeral, without having it come out as _I want you there for moral support_ or _I need you_ or _please_ or anything mushy like that, is simply to attempt a direct question. You don't have to dance around it, because she will. And you'll eventually get so frustrated you'll blurt it out, forgetting all other concerns.

"Jess—"

"If you're worried about getting to the airport in that old jalopy of yours, don't be; I'm happy to drive you guys there. Carpool lane, amirite?! Are Schmidt and Winston going with you? I guess I assumed they were, but maybe it will just be you. I'm still happy to drive. Whatever you need."

"Uh, thanks. That's not what I came in here to ask, actually."

"Oh. Oh, were you wondering about the flooring people? Don't worry your pretty little head about that aquarium for another second; we swept all the glass up together, so we both helped, we're even. And Remy said he would come up on Saturday with some guys to find the leaky spots and do some deep cleaning. It's all taken care of. I'll be here to let them in."

"What! You will _not_ be here, _alone_, to let _Remy_ in on Saturday."

"Sure I will. I don't teach that day. And you guys will be in Chicago. Somebody has to make sure they're thorough. We can't have Schmidt coming home to a slight mould risk; he'd go berserk."

"That is not what I'm worried about _at all_."

"Well, don't worry about those people downstairs, either. They can leave all the passive-aggressive notes they want. We'll see whose ceiling is dripping after Saturday… that didn't really make sense. Anyway, I'll be here, holding the fort."

"That's not what I'm worried about either."

"What are you worried about?"

"That's not—I'm not—worried about anything, exactly—"

"Is it… do you need… do you need me to spot you money for the plane ticket?"

"No, no—Jess, I have two-hundred dollars in my life, thank you very much—I work for a living, like the rest of you—"

"Sorry, I just thought I should ask, in case you needed that and felt awkward asking. I'd do it, happily, you know."

"I know. Now shut up. That's not what I wanted to ask you."

"Okay… well, then—"

"WILL YOU JUST PLEASE COME WITH ME THIS WEEKEND?"

* * *

As it turns out, the simplest way to get your softest, sweetest room…friend to sit beside you on the plane, even though you booked your tickets at the last minute, so none of your seats were together, is to look generally forlorn, perhaps because you can't help it, because your father has just died, to such a degree that said roommate becomes mildly worried, and begins to make efforts to stay near you and keep watch, to the extent that she convinces the fearsome but ultimately magnanimous businesswoman sitting next to you to switch seats.

Getting that roommate to stop alternatively chatting cheerily and gazing at you sympathetically, as though you are a sad puppy in a tiny cup, so that you can have a few hours of quietude in which to brood and think, is less simple. Until you get up the courage to just ask, that is. Then, as it turns out, she's perfectly understanding, and not at all offended, and it's fine.

It's not too shabby, either, dozing off for a little bit, or even pretending to doze off for a little bit, and resting your head on her bony little shoulder while she reads some novel. In fact, this is exactly the kind of quietude you needed.

And, when you do sneak peeks, while still purportedly being asleep, the snippets of the novel that you catch are actually kind of good.

* * *

As it turns out, the fastest way to get your ma to warm up to your new room…friend—and you only have one weekend in which to do it—and you've got other stuff on your plate that trumps this project—is to finally shed the shell of responsibility you always wear when your family is near, get drunk at a bar while spending hours raving about your father to the placid bartender (an experience which, itself, is like looking in a funhouse mirror), then convince some tall guy to dress up as Elvis, then show up late to said father's funeral, then nearly lose it in front of everyone, and have her standing right by you like the kind of solid, steady girl you know your mother approves of—more importantly, like the solid, steady girl that she can be, that she _is_.

What was it that your ma said about being glad there was someone to take care of you? Moms. Go figure.

Then again, you did give Ma Jess's phone number when your phone crapped out that time, awhile ago. So she knows how to get through to you in an emergency.

They both do, now.


	2. Chapter 2

_…and a little coda to that coda…_

* * *

As it turns out, the most efficient way to open a bag of cheeze puffs, which you feel obligated to eat, while wearing mittens (_still_—because the plane is still warming up) and sitting in a constrictive seat, is to tear with your teeth. (Your teeth, which, however aggressively you bare them, shine brightly from within a supple mouth glossed in strawberry red, so… probably not that threatening after all… in fact, perhaps having a very different effect on your seatmate, whether he wishes it right now or not, based on the reaction he tries to cover up.)

The cheeze puffs will fly everywhere, and bounce off the window, and land in the lap of said seatmate, whose father has just died, and who's had a rough weekend on top of that. He'll pick one or two of them off your jacket, where they've landed on your shoulder and your lap, and he'll toss them in his mouth, and laugh a breathy laugh that he can't help laughing, even though he's just lost his unreliable but charismatic father. And, before he sighs yet another heavy sigh and leans back, you'll see a little sparkle in his eye, and you'll know it really was good that you came, and that he'll be alright in the end, whenever that is.

He might need some more hand-holding for good measure, though. Or maybe it's both of you who need it.


End file.
